


A Hint Of Scandal

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: A difficult situation for everyone, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Regency, Amorality, Diplomacy, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mistress, Regency Romance, Shocking Affairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7429425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lyanna Stark had been hoping for a speedy, but respectable, marriage to come out of her visit to Town. With such an interest in mind, she had prepared herself to accept the first suitable gentleman, convinced their like were in no small supply. After all, one heard almost every month about one peer or another having wedded an opera singer, or the chambermaid or the unusual wallflower one just happened to trip over - the one usually hiding in some corner mourning the ill-fated blow to her pride. </p><p>Little did she know that her own fate had something entirely different in store for her and the assortment of idyllic fancies she carried about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hint Of Scandal

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What dreadful weather we have today,” Lyarra Stark, Lady Winterfell, addressed her two youngest who barely deigned to raise their heads from the engrossing game of cyvasse they were playing. Such a response was not to be countenanced however and the lady in question turned around from the window in order to glance at her brother and sister. “Have you heard a word of what I’ve said?”

“Dreadful weather,” Lady Lyanna murmured, barely looking up. “Truly, mother. Dreadful. I cannot imagine how you endure it.” Her brother moved a piece on the board and offered no words to his mother.

“Leave the children be,” her beloved husband said in fond exasperation. “I fear you shall run out of breath and dissolve into a fit of the vapours if they continued to offer such witty replies as the one your daughter produced just now.” The rustling of paper failed to attract his wife’s attention, but Lyanna did look away from the game with a glare.

“My response was eminently suitable, papa. I faithfully reproduced mamma’s words and commiserated. It is more than Benjen did anyway.” The spark in her eyes, though, could not be mistaken for true annoyance. “And I do agree, mother,” she turned to look at the older woman. “But there is so very little sense in complaining over matters that one cannot change.”

“Your prattling on incessantly is, however, susceptible to rectification,” Benjen cut in, much to their mother’s mortification. “If you would kindly return your attention to the game.”

Lyarra Stark had done her best to raise four children into responsible adults. And not one of them had chafed at that, although they might have cast her lessons aside once or twice. Never in such a manner as to suggest rebellion or general crassness, but, as the case would most unfortunately have fate contrive it, all four of her children were in possession of the well known stark Stark stubbornness which plagued most individuals of the family with a few notable exceptions, like Aunt Branda of whom very little was spoken.

The sad fact remained that none of her children were one such exception. Lyarra sighed softly and allowed herself to sit down on one of the available chairs. Three sons and one daughter later and she was no closer to having a little cherub in her lap than she’d been on the first day of her marriage.

But she supposed she ought to count her blessings. She was fortunate, Lyarra knew, for all she liked to complain. Her eldest son, Brandon, had been followed by another boy to her husband’s elation and her relief. The heir and spare were indispensible to every great household. They’d called the second child Eddard, Ned for short and to those close to him. The third born, Lyanna, was supposed to have been her mother’s, but she was as much of a hellion as her brothers, encouraged no doubt by the fact that no one had ever taken a hand to her for all the mischief she’d encountered in her life and gladly participated in. Their youngest, Benjen, only wished to follow in the footsteps of his older siblings to the mother’s utter horror.

“Come, wife,” Rickard Stark, her husband of more than two decades, interrupted her musings. “You must admit that having them here and not outside in the streets is more of a blessing than you’re making of it.” Benjen could be heard huffing in indignation.

“We are not as bad as that,” her daughter’s laughter distracted her from Rickard’s smiling face. “At least I am not. For the other one I do not guarantee.” She moved a piece across the board.

Her brother scowled and Lyarra was almost certain he would leap out of his chair. What he did was just as bad. “I am not the one who keeps an overgrown rat for a pet.”

“That is hardly accurate.” The subject of their discussion raised its head from the small pillow to look at them with dark beady eyes. Lyarra suppressed a shudder as the creature stretched, turning to look with a decided lack of interest towards Rickard’s paper. “Smokey is as well-behaved a pet as any.” It shook its whole body, no doubt leaving hairs all over the unfortunate pillow.

“I’m certain mother doesn’t agree. Do you, mamma?” The question sailed from where her children played cyvasse to where Lyarra tried without success to shoo away the stoat which had decided now was just the moment to demonstrate an undying affection for her.

Smokey the stoat had been a member of the family for an unfortunate amount three years, ever since her daughter had seen it in a shop of all places and insisted that the buy it from the owner before someone decided they wished for a pair of gloves or a pretty scarf. Lyarra found herself thinking she might have liked a pair of gloves. But her daughter had used all her charm to gain their help and that had been that. Smokey remained with the family and would likely continue to do so for the foreseeable future.

“Nonsense, my dear boy. Your mother is positively smitten,” Rickard jested, insensible to her trials. Lyarra shot him a hard stare against which he mounted a sounding defence constituting of that smile which had stolen her heart away as a girl and a rather impertinent wink. He enjoyed little better than to tease her over the difficulty she had in accommodation to Smokey.

“Of course,” she agreed half-heartedly, more to spare her daughter’s feelings than to play her husband’s game. Smokey, for all the inappropriate insistence for affection, was not the worst pet her daughter had ever brought home. She still had nightmares about lizards in teacups and angry matrons. Instinctively, she pushed Smokey away when the stoat climbed into her lap, trying to encourage a shred of attention from her. “No,” she warned, wagging her finger in a forbidding manner. The stoat arched and rubbed against her leg, making a chattering sound. Lyarra swatted lightly at the creature, but the white-furred rascal was not deterred in the slightest. “Husband, what manner of chivalry do you practice?” she asked of the man who was having a hard time concealing his amusement.

“The one which shan’t take me out of this chair,” he replied, eyes filled with mirth, at her expense no doubt. “Smokey, my fellow, making advances upon another man’s wife is frowned upon in polite society,” he continued nonetheless, sitting up and approaching the misbehaving stoat who had decided to brace itself against his wife’s leg, pushing small paws into her skirts. For all his shortcoming, Rickard Stark could not be said to be a man of no action.

Lyarra was saved from anymore unsavoury attention from the shrewd stout as her husband picked the animal up and cradled it in his arms, stopping its attempts to jump back towards Lyarra. “Lyanna, dear, do come here a moment and take away your pet.”

Lyanna, who had in the meantime lost the game of cyvasse to Benjen, was more than happy to comply. “My brother gloats too much anyway,” she said, taking Smokey from her father’s arms into her own. “Oh, mamma, I do wish you would give him a chance.” Her fingers trailed through the silky coat. “He is such a sweet boy. You would grow to love him if only you’d let yourself.”

“Now see here,” her father began, “such effrontery is not permitted in this house.” A less discerning soul might have taken offence at the tone. But Lyarra knew her husband well enough by now, and her daughter too. Benjen laughed behind his hand.

“Effrontery? From me?” her sole daughter questioned innocently. “I apologise, my dear father, from the bottom of my heart.”

Rickard tsked softly but bent to kiss his daughter’s forehead nonetheless. “I say, poppet, you must have grown half an inch.”

Such words could only make Lyanna smile. She hadn’t, of course. It was not very likely that she would grow anymore. The teasing did not bother her though. She looked at her mother and smiled. They both had the same height, as their father could oft be heard saying, perfect to carry around in one’s pocket. And though she might have wished for a few inches more, Lyanna had meant her earlier words. What one could not change, ought to be left well alone. She would forever be the smallest of the lot alongside her mother. And that had its advantages. Unsuspecting enemies ere more likely to consider her

“Nonsense, papa,” she chided lightly, taking care not to jostle Smokey. It looked like her pet had just fallen asleep again. “I’d better run along now and put Smokey in his basket.”

“Do not allow the creature access to your new gowns, Lya. Who knows what might strike its fancy and be stolen away never to be seen again.”

“Those are ferrets, mother,” Lyanna protested. Smokey lifted its head to look at Lady Lyarra, small dark eyes glistening with what anyone looking, besides the mother, would insist was hurt. “But I wouldn’t let him anyway. He might bring a rat along.”

Her mother looked rather sick at the prospect. Lyanna suspected that missing buttons and stolen ribbons she could deal with, but blood and gore on one of the new dresses was quite beyond her powers of endurance. “I think I need to sit down,” Lady Lyarra said slowly, taking her husband’s hand for support.

Gallant that he was, father took mother to a chair and lowered her into it. “Go on, poppet, and take Smokey along before your mother swoons and has us all running for salts.”

“You reprehensible beast,” his wife groused unhappily, still holding onto him. “You care naught, but your daughter must find a husband.”

Lyanna smiled and turned away from the scene, the voices of her parents indicating the conversation would go on without her. Ever since she’d turned seven-and-ten mother had taken it into her head that it was time to find a husband. Lyanna was not against it, to be sure, but she was simply not shivering in excitement either. And good it was of her, a lady was not allowed to show such a degree of emotion.

Benjen caught her by the elbow. “When the rain lets up, I want a rematch with those foils. You promised.” The reminder cheered her some.

“You’ll only lose again,” she assured him, shrugging off his hold. “But I am not against it.”

Yet as she said those words, Lyanna recognised that her mother’s worries might not be unfounded after all. Certainly she was the daughter of a nobleman and charm she did possess in spades, especially when it suited her. Even so Lyanna knew she could at times exhibit certain proclivities which made suitors ill at ease in her presence, such as unabashedly admiring the horse of a suitor more than the man’s face, or giving her opinion on matters of foreign politics, or, heaven forbid, speaking of fencing with her brother.

The first two she might close her eyes to and try to censor for the sake of a respectable match. But the last she was not ready to forgo, nor would she ever be, for the simply fact that it was papa who had insisted that fencing was an eminently suitable sport and both she and mother had learned. It would simply be bad form to choose a husband whose opinions were so far removed from her father’s.

It would take a man of profound understanding to appreciate that these traits which made her _her_ were not a mere fancy or folly and that she was as much a woman as any other Miss parading about Town. Lyanna was, in essence, not so very different from her other female peers. She wanted a family of her own and children and a loving husband. And she was not ashamed at such thoughts. Why should she be? But at the same time, she needed it to be understood that there were certain limits to her acceptance.

Of course, it would be just as easy to led an unsuspecting man into a trap of matrimony, but Lyanna had been assured many times over that if one must lie, then the reason needed to be pertinent, moral or at the very least harmless. Or to promise a man one thing and give him another was not only harmful to the man, but to Lyanna herself. She hadn’t any plans of settling for a man who did not appreciate all her or who would try to mould her into his own image of the ideal woman. That said, she was ready to compromise on small matters, if the man proved amenable.

“Plotting, are we?” Benjen interrupted her. He gave her a sly look, petting Smokey’s head, upon which the pet snarled. “You’ve that look on your face. Almost the same as Smokey when he’s spots a fat little rat he would like to chase.”

“We will pretend you haven’t just said what you did and I will spare you from having to apologise. This once. Next time, I shall call you out.” Lyanna winked at him. Benjen laughed, his whole face transforming with it. “Poor mother. She must be at her wit’s end with you.”

“I daresay I am not a lot of work. Certainly less than Brandon.” The angelic look upon his face could have fooled the gods themselves. But not Lyanna. She knew him better. One raised eyebrow later had him confessing, “Oh, very well. You’ve caught me. Now do be so good as to put away this creature,” he pointed to Smokey and the stoat snapped its teeth at him, “where it belongs. Mother is not the only one with misgivings about it.”

“You’re such a child. Smokey did not mean to,” she paused, searching for the proper word, “soil your coat, you know? He is just a pet. You should be more understanding.” And not leave his coats where Smokey had access to them. What had her poor pet been supposed to do? It was not the job of the dog to protect the master’s boots anymore than it was for the stoat to take care of fine coats.

“More likely a demon, if anything.” Beast and human stared at one another with unadulterated loathing. She would never understand them, truly. Lyanna had tried every trick known to her, but they countered everything with obstinacy. She felt Smokey trembled as well as she saw Benjen tense. Her grip tightened on the small fellow, pressing him into her bosom to keep Smokey from springing out of her hold. She did love her bother that much after all, although he was wretched and insufferable at times. Especially after winning a cyvasse game.

“Might I suggest leaving this behind before we head for Town. You never know, a lady might take a real fancy to that shiny fur while we’re about.” Benjen scowled fiercely at Smokey and the animal’s response was to let out a strange sound which Lyanna doubted meant anything good. Their hate for one another was equally matched and Lyanna was certain it rivalled the love of Florian the Fool for his Jonquil. It even suppressed mother’s dislike of the stoat, thus it had to be a potent thing.

“Benjen Stark, you take that back or I will let Sybell Cerwyn know exactly why you will not stand up with her when next we see one another.” This had to be her favourite weapon. Only because her brother knew no better than to give in every time instead of gathering his courage and solving the problem.

Benjen paled slightly. “Fine. I take it back.” At her insistent look, he felt compelled to add, “I would never let anyone hurt your precious Smokey, you termagant.” Then he grinned, the mischief returning as soon as it had gone. “If anyone has the right to wring the rat’s neck, that’s me.”

Sharp claws dug into her arm causing her to gasp. “Smokey, don’t,” she chided. “Benjen is not serious. You know how he liked to tease.” Her words of sense were thrown out the window by her precious pet as it struggled to escape her hold and do her brother harm. She would do Benjen harm herself if her hands were not otherwise occupied. “Look what you’ve done now, oaf. Have you any idea how hard he scratches?”

“I know perfectly well,” he snapped. “Best be off now before I get it into my head to give you a present lined with fine fur.” Now Lyanna did not believe her brother would actually do anything of the nature, but she knew very well when not to push.

Thus, she simply mounted the stairs one at a time, making for her bedchamber. Within the safety of that territory, Smokey was free to hop and run and slink under beds and chairs. She opened the closet door for him and pointed to the basket. “We had best be quiet for a little bit.” Until mother’s nerves settled and father’s amusement faded and Benjen became more civil. “Never mind that last one,” she muttered to herself, “nothing will help my brother.” And that, she blamed on the example Brandon set. Even poor Ned suffer under such influence. She sighed and shook her head.

There were more important matters than the rakishness behaviour of her brothers. Her visit to Town was bound to bring to her attention at least one gentleman who she could wed with a clear conscience. And if all went well she could be a wife by the end of the blasted season. Preferably, she would attract a suitor with a nice estate in the countryside and they could spend the rest of their lives rusticating together. Emboldened by the idyllic notion, Lyanna took to her feet and went to the window.

Without rain was still pouring in sheets. It could be that her brother was not to have his wish after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
